


heavy weather

by fragileanimals



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragileanimals/pseuds/fragileanimals
Summary: "All right, this is ridiculous,” Tom says, having to raise his voice over the now-significant patter of rain. “Get under here.” He lifts the umbrella slightly, and Will tucks himself under it, bending significantly to do so. The umbrella is small, and they’re very close. Close enough for Will to smell the remnants of Tom’s cologne, to feel the tickle of Tom’s hair against his cheek. It’s slightly longer than usual, the soft dark hair beginning to creep over his ears and down his neck.Will and Tom get caught in a rainstorm.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 12
Kudos: 28





	heavy weather

**Author's Note:**

> this is for spencer (@badmeetsevil) who so wonderfully came up with the idea of tom and will sharing an umbrella in the rain, which dragged me out of my year-long writer's block to get this out in less than a week!

They’re halfway home when the rain starts. The grey clouds have hung low and trembling all day with the threat of it, but only now, after dark, do they release their burden.

The first cold drop lands on the tip of Will’s nose, making him flinch. Rubbing it off with the sleeve of his shirt, he tips his head back to stare into the night sky. A few moments pass, enough time for him to hope it might have been a fluke, but then several more raindrops patter down.

“-- and so I said, to him, I said, if you hadn’t given me last week’s numbers, we wouldn’t be in this mess!” Tom pauses, interrupting his most recent diatribe against his coworker. Looking up, “That rain?” 

“Think so,” Will answers, frowning. He had been hoping it would at least hold off until they arrived home.

Tom checks his watch, then swears. “Just our luck.”

They’d stayed later than usual at the shop tonight, Tom alternating between helping Will unpack the next day’s deliveries, and distracting him by arranging the produce in compromising positions. Now it is past midnight, and all the bus lines have stopped running.

Inconvenient, but not a crisis. Situations like these are precisely why Will carries an umbrella on his person-- London is notorious for its drizzle. It’s only when he reaches into his back pocket does he remember setting it down on one of the counters before locking up for the night.

Swearing under his breath, he peers up at the sky again, catching a few more cold drops on his cheeks. Beside him, Tom opens his umbrella, for once the better prepared of the two. Will suppresses a smile at the thought.

“What’s wrong, forget yours?” Tom asks. “We can share, if you like.” He lifts the umbrella slightly, beckoning Will under.

“That’s all right,” says Will. “I wouldn’t want to crowd you.” It’s hardly more than a sprinkle yet, really, and they aren’t so far from the flat. 

“Crowd me anytime,” says Tom, with a smile. 

They walk on briskly, the night illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlamps, passing darkened storefronts and the occasional automobile. And at first, it’s not so bad-- the drops are small and far-between, not enough to penetrate Will’s shirt and chill his skin. The streets are mostly empty by now, but occasionally they pass an inebriated couple or another man like themselves, heading home, head tucked into the collar of his shirt.

Tom finishes his work story, making Will laugh as he always does. 

“Swear, I’m the smartest person in the place,” he says, seriously. “Dunno how they ran the place during.” He pauses. Then, “Probably the women.”

“Probably,” Will agrees. The rain is picking up, and he wraps his arms around himself. It’s a useless gesture, as a gust of wind blows suddenly down the street, pressing Will’s rain-speckled shirt against his bare skin. He’s unable to suppress a shiver.

“All right, this is ridiculous,” Tom says, having to raise his voice over the now-significant patter of rain. “Get under here.” He lifts the umbrella slightly, and Will tucks himself under it, bending significantly to do so. The umbrella is small, and they’re very close. Close enough for Will to smell the remnants of Tom’s cologne, to feel the tickle of Tom’s hair against his cheek. It’s slightly longer than usual, the soft dark hair beginning to creep over his ears and down his neck.

“You need a haircut,” Will says, with a smile, reaching up to tug a lock.

“Fuck off,” Tom says, but he’s grinning back at him. He bumps Will’s shoulder with his own, and the bright look in his eyes makes Will want to lean in and kiss him right there on the street. Instead, he simply takes the umbrella as Tom passes it to him, straightening up.

They’re walking as fast as they can, but it’s coming down now, raindrops ricocheting off the pavement to wet their shoes and ankles. Tom presses in close avoiding the rivulets streaming from the umbrella spines.

“This is your fault, you know,” Will says, and Tom’s mouth drops open.

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes,” Will says, suppressing a smile, “if you hadn’t had me so distracted, we could have made it home with plenty of time to spare. Or at least in time to catch the bus.”

Tom rears back, offended. “I’ll have you know, everything I demonstrated I learned in Year 7--”

“I wasn’t aware you’d completed Year 7,” Will says, dryly. “Thank you so much.”

Tom opens his mouth to reply, indignant. But before he can get the words out, a bright crack of lightning splits the sky, the resulting boom of thunder making them both jump. Thankfully, they’re nearly in sight of the flat. They look at each other, and Tom just gives him a wink and takes off running, leaving Will holding the umbrella.

“Race ya!” he calls, drawing farther away each second.

Will can’t help but gape. After a second, and a sigh, he takes off after Tom, fighting against the chill of rain and wind. At one point Tom’s umbrella gets turned around and blown backward, the spines of it reaching behind him like a spiky tree. The pavement flies by beneath his feet, the world turned to blurry shapes around him. Will’s legs are longer than Tom’s, and he arrives at the street-level entrance only a hair behind him.

They’re both drenched by this time, the rain coming down in waves, plinking off the streetlamps.

“Just going to leave me, were you?” Will gasps, shoving Tom’s shoulder with a laugh. “Some mate you are.”

Tom just grins his shit-eating grin, leaning against the brick wall, the water coming down his face in streams. Will slumps against the wall across from him, laughing and shivering in the electric chill. Tom beams back at him, red-cheeked, rain dripping off the tip of his nose, and it’s all Will can do for a moment to look at him.

Then, digging into his pocket, Will fumbles with the slippery keys a moment. Finally the door swings inward, and they’re welcomed into the somewhat dingy but significantly dryer foyer. It’s warmer, too, and they both breathe a sigh of relief.

A moment later, a flurry of cold drops hit Will’s neck. He looks over to find Tom shaking his hair out, much like a wet dog.

Will gasps as the cold droplets land on his neck. “Hey!” 

Tom freezes, looking guilty. “Sorry.” Then, hopefully, “But it’s not like we could get any wetter, right?”

Will sighs. “I suppose not,” he says, looking down at himself. He takes in the ruined shirt and soaked trousers.

They squelch their way across the lobby, leaving a trail of soggy footsteps on several flights until they reach their floor. Tom shivers as he waits for Will to open the door. 

Almost before the door is shut behind them, he’s stripping his clothes off, shoes and socks shucked off by the door, shirt discarded on the wood floor. 

“At least shut the window first,” Will chuckles, crossing the small living room to close the shutters. “Unless you want to give the whole street a show.”

“They should be so lucky,” Tom says, sticking his chin out jauntily. Hopping on one foot, he ungracefully attempts to remove his trousers, crashing sideways into the kitchen counter.

Will smiles, unbuttoning his own shirt. He wrings it out over the kitchen sink, then does the same with his trousers before heading into the bathroom in his undergarments. It’s his favorite way to warm up-- to run a warm shower. It’s a new device, installed when the flats had been renovated. Quite brilliant, he thinks; it takes less than a quarter of the time filling a tub would, meaning one can bathe much quicker.

He sticks a hand in a few times, testing the temperature. When it’s sufficiently warm, he strips off his undergarments as well, leaving them hanging from the towel rack to dry. 

Stepping in, he releases an involuntary sigh as the warm water hits his cold skin. He stands under the stream as still as a statue, letting the water crest and spill down him, warming him to the bone.

After a minute or two the shower curtain parts, and Tom follows him in. There’s hardly enough space for one person, let alone two, but they’re familiar enough with it to be able to navigate around each other. 

Will sighs contentedly, closing his eyes as he leans into the warm spray. He can’t help but marvel at the novelty of hot water whenever he likes, just as he’s still becoming reacquainted to the safety of a fire in the hearth. Although they’ve been back in England nearly a year, the sound of a crackling fire and the first plumes of smoke still make him tense, the same way the sharp slam of the shop’s door makes his heart pound. The war is over, but some things remain.

The memory of those frigid, fireless nights sends a shudder through him, even in the warmth of the shower. Seeing this, Tom rubs a brisk hand up and down Will’s arm, trying to create friction.

“What we would’ve given for this in France, right?” Tom says, perceptive as always. 

Will hums in agreement. His skin prickles pleasantly where Tom’s hand touches it. “It seems almost unbelievable now we’d go weeks without a proper bath.”

Tom grimaces. “Yeah. Even for me, that’s a bit long.”

Will gives him a smile, draping his arm around Tom’s shoulders. “What, you mean farm boys aren’t perfect models of hygiene?” he teases.

Tom shrugs, leaning into the touch. “Don’t see much point when you’re just going to go out the next day and get dirty again,” he says, honestly. “But every now and then Ma would give me a sniff and a swat with her kitchen towel, which was how I knew it was time.”

Will laughs. Tom’s mother is a lovely woman, but there’s no question she made her opinions known. “I can see that.”

“Joe was worse, though,” Tom assures him. “Probably why he adjusted to military life so bloody fast. The bastard was already used to going without showering.”

“I’m sure that’s it,” Will says, with a grin, “and not the several years of military college.”

Although Will had gotten in merely to warm up, they end up washing anyway. These days they never miss an opportunity to bathe; it still feels like a luxury to climb between clean sheets with a clean body. They soap themselves up, each leaning on the other at times to avoid slipping on the slick shower floor. Though they’ve done this countless times before, it still feels intimate. There’s something to be said for making yourself vulnerable before someone else in the unspeakably personal acts of life.

When the water runs clear, Will reaches over Tom’s shoulder, to pick up the shampoo bottle, pouring a bit into his hand. Instead of soaping up his own hair, however, he lays his hand atop Tom’s head, working the shampoo through Tom’s hair with his fingers. Tom hums happily at the touch, tipping his head toward Will to give him better access. Closing his eyes, Tom leans into Will’s hands, so near that Will can hear his soft breaths.

“Your hair’s quite a nice length, actually,” Will murmurs, running his nails lightly over Tom’s scalp in the way he know Tom likes. “When it’s cut short you can’t see how wavy it is.”

“Oh, so you’re in favor now, are you?” Tom asks, lifting his head with a twinkle in his eye. 

“I’m in favor of you generally,” says Will softly, running a soapy thumb over Tom’s cheekbone. He’s rewarded with the soft press of Tom’s lips to his palm. Leaning in, he uses his free hand to brush Tom’s hair back from his forehead to keep the soap out of his eyes, then leans in to press his lips to Tom’s. It’s ungraceful and very wet, but neither of them seems to mind terribly. Will feels Tom’s hand come up to his back, and wraps his own arm around Tom’s shoulders, drawing him close. 

There’s a moment, a spark, where Will is nearly overcome with the feeling of Tom pressed to him, pulling him in--

Until a trail of bubbles makes its way into their mouths, parting them at once. Laughing, coughing, they spit the shampoo from their mouths, trying not to swallow it. They take turns rinsing their mouths under the stream.

“Yuck,” Tom says, wiping his mouth. He steps under the spray to scrub the last of the bubbles from his hair, eyes shut tightly.

“If that’s how you feel, you’re more than welcome to find your own flat,” Will teases, leaning against the wall. Although the moment may have been interrupted, he takes the opportunity to run his eyes appreciatively over Tom’s body, marble-white and fluid under the flowing water. 

“And leave you to mope about here on your own?” Tom shoots back, eyes still closed. “I don’t think so.”

Will smiles, crossing his arms. “Somehow, I don’t think I’d be the one moping.”

“Oh, no?” Tom asks, opening his eyes. He slicks his hair back to keep the water from his eyes. “A bold claim, Corporal Schofield.” He draws near Will again, the mischievous tilt to his lips making Will’s pulse stutter momentarily. “A very bold claim.”

Later that night, long after the water has run cold, Will studies Tom in the moonlight. As always, Tom has fallen asleep first, hardly needing more to do so than to close his eyes. But Will doesn’t mind, enjoying the quiet, the ability to simply watch Tom in the comfort of sleep, his mouth half-open, dark hair spilled across the pillow. Every now and then his eyelids flicker with dreams.

They are finally warm, tucked in together under the heavy quilt Tom’s mother had gifted him when he’d moved to London. Even a year later, it feels like an immeasurable gift to sleep indoors, covered by a heavy, soft blanket instead of mud-stiff uniforms. Protected from the elements.

As his eyelids begin to droop, he searches under the blankets to close his hand over Tom’s smaller, warmer one. The rain taps on the window, asking to be let in. Burrowing into the mattress, he closes his eyes and lets the steady thrum of it lull him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah yeah yeah i know showers weren't really commonplace yet in the uk in this period but i do what i want. also i promoted scho to corporal from lance corporal congrats babe
> 
> always happy to receive comments and constructive criticism! <3


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